


Wayward Son

by Kirito_Potter



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Book 2: Wayward Son, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-24 01:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18561022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirito_Potter/pseuds/Kirito_Potter
Summary: The story is supposed to be over. Simon Snow did everything he was supposed to do. He beat the villain. He won the war. He even fell in love. Now comes the good part, right? Now comes the happily ever after…So why can’t Simon Snow get off the couch?





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> My predictions for Wayward Son. I'm not sure how much I'll write, but probably a few beginning chapters at least.

**BAZ**

Simon Snow is lying on the sofa.

Simon Snow has been lying on the sofa for a week now, actually.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. It’s not odd to see him lounging around his flat, whether he’s watching Doctor Who in the living room or sitting with a bag of crisps on his bed. (Well, he doesn’t eat them on the bed anymore.) (I told him he’d drop them, but he didn’t believe me.)

The first day, I lightly teased him, saying he should take a shower or I wouldn’t kiss him. He rolled his eyes and mumbled, “You’ll kiss me anyhow, you git.”

When I came to visit again two days later, he was still on the sofa. I didn’t even consider that it was because he hadn’t moved from there at all.

It took me arriving today and seeing Snow still lying there for Bunce to drag me aside. We’re watching him reach for his drink as she speaks in hushed tones.

“I can’t get him to do anything,” she hisses. If Snow can hear her, he doesn’t show it. “He just lays there! It’s a miracle I can get him to eat.”

I laugh a little too loudly, and Snow shoots me a look over his shoulder before turning back to his Nesquik.

“A miracle?” I ask. “It’s a miracle when he’s  _ not _ eating.”

Her gaze is icy. “I’m serious, Baz. I–” she breaks eye contact, face crumpling. “I’m worried about him.”

I frown. “All he needs is a little push, right?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve tried, believe me. It’s like he’s not even Simon anymore.”

Crossing my arms, I glance back at him. “Let me talk to him,” I offer. “Maybe I can cheer him up.”

“I think he needs a little more than cheering up,” she sighs. “But go ahead.”

I carefully walk over to him, trying to hold myself in as friendly a way as possible. “Simon?” I ask. I know he likes it when I call him Simon.

He glances up a bit. His eyelids are drooping, and he has dark rings under them. His skin has lost its usual golden glow. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles faintly, nowhere near the vibrant grin that normally lights up his face.

“Hey,” I say softly. “Can I sit?”

He nods and curls up his legs underneath himself to give me room. That’s progress, isn’t it?

I settle on the sofa beside him. “Simon,” I say again. “How are you feeling, love?”

He purses his lips and takes another swig of Nesquik. He wipes awkwardly at his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, finally, he speaks.

“Like shite.”

My heart breaks when I hear his voice. It’s raspy and clunky, like he hasn’t spoken in ages. He’s slurring his words a bit, too.

“I’m sorry,” I offer.

He shakes his head vehemently, with more energy than anything else he’s done so far. “Don’t apologise. ’S not your fault.”

I reach for his hand. He hesitates before taking mine.

“What’s wrong, then? How can I help you feel better?” I try not to let on how seeing him feel awful is making me feel awful too.

He just shakes his head. “Dunno. I… I don’t feel like there’s anything I can do. Better to not do anything. At least this way, I can’t…” his voice cracks. “I can’t screw anything up.”

I squeeze his hand. “You won’t.”

He closes his eyes and tips his head back, drinking the last of what’s in the bottle. When he finishes, he doesn’t speak.

“You don’t need to sit here and feel helpless,” I whisper. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Simon. I’ve seen it.”

He opens his eyes, but he looks so tired.

I kiss him. His lips taste like artificial strawberry.

When I pull back, he doesn’t smile. He just stares at the ground.

I stand and take the empty bottle. I throw it in the bin for him.

When I look back again, chest full of hope, he hasn’t moved.

Simon Snow is lying on the sofa.


	2. 2

**BAZ**

  


I've managed to get him into the shower. I’m rejoicing quietly, smiling at him as he stands under the stream of water, humming under my breath as I pull the curtain open a bit further.

He nods gently to the tune, but doesn’t do much else. Just standing from the sofa was a huge step, and I’m not sure he has the energy to take another. (It probably doesn’t help that he’s hardly eaten for a week, and what he did eat was all junk food.)

I step closer, reaching for the bottle of shampoo. He closes his eyes obediently, without me having to say a word. I wince at how grimy his hair is under my fingers. It's strange to see it like this-- his hair has always been one of my favorite things about him. Soft and light and flowing like water. Now it's clumped and greasy, though slowly giving way to the suds. It's like Bunce said: he doesn't seem like Simon anymore.

I gently rinse the shampoo out of his hair and start again. Eventually, it'll be clean. One round of bubbles. Two. Three. Maybe four. It doesn't matter how long it takes. I'll stand here as long as he needs.

He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, and I realise I've stopped humming. I pick up again. It's a song I heard on the radio the other day, but I can't for the life of me remember the lyrics. Something about a different kind of darkness.

The front of my shirt is soaked by now from the spray of water, but I don't mind. I have plenty of shirts. I only have one Simon.

He wobbles, frowning, and I hold his shoulders.

“Do you want to sit down?” I ask.

He nods, legs shaking.

I help him sit in the tub, and he faces me, crossing his legs, hands falling into his lap. Like a kindergartner waiting for an adult to tell him what to do.

I'm up to three coats of shampoo when he leans his head on my shoulder, burying his nose in my neck. I pause for a moment, surprised, but this is actually a bit easier, since I don't have to lean my body over the lip of the tub to get my fingers in his hair. He sighs a bit when I dig into his scalp.

Soon, his breathing softens, and I notice his heart rate slow. His eyelashes flutter lightly on my collarbone. He's fallen asleep.

I carefully rinse out his hair again. It’s still not quite clean, but it’s a big difference from when we started. At this point, it’s nearly therapeutic when I start lathering his curls again.

He huffs softly in his sleep, blowing warm air onto my wet neck, and I shiver.

I’m not sure what to feel right now. The fact that he trusts me enough to fall asleep makes my chest tingle, but it’s only happened because he’s clearly exhausted beyond the point that anyone deserves to be. And there’s the pride of seeing him willing to do something, but there’s also the crushing worry that whispers in my ear. (Why is he so listless now all of a sudden?) (Did I do something wrong?) (Am I doing something wrong right now?) (When will he be able to do more?) ( _Will_ he be able to do more?)

I swallow hard. He shifts a bit in his sleep, and I do my best to hum again. My throat is so tight.

He groans a little, tension building in his muscles. I hope he’s not having a nightmare, he’s been through enough. Just as quickly, though, he sighs again and his shoulders fall slack.

Even though I can’t see his face, I imagine it easily from countless nights of watching him doze off at Watford. Eyebrows slightly tilted up, as though he’s confused. Slack jaw (confirmed by the bit of drool sliding down my neck), which only made me want to kiss him more back then. It still has the same effect.

I lean down and press a kiss to his cheek.

Because I want to.

And because I can.

And because I think he needs it right now.


	3. 3

**SIMON**

  
  


Oh. I fell asleep.


	4. 4

**BAZ**

  


I’m carrying Simon back to his room when he wakes. I don’t think he knows I know, but that’s what he gets for dating someone with superhuman senses. He squeezes his eyes shut harder than he normally does when he’s sleeping, probably so he doesn’t have to talk to anyone.

I gently set him down on the bed, and he sighs. It’s been a week since he’s slept in his own bed, so I don’t blame him. He curls up on himself like a kitten, and my heart swells. Almost immediately, he drifts back into unconsciousness.

I stay for a minute to make sure he won’t wake up, then slip out into the living room again.

Bunce is sitting at the table with a cuppa and my copy of Moby Dick. I’d berate her for taking it out of my bag if I hadn’t already read it about a hundred times. (Mostly my fifth year.) Besides, she didn’t have much else to do.

I grab a cup for myself, rummaging around their cupboards for a tea bag.

“Really? Lipton?” I ask, disgusted. “Do you have no taste buds?”

Bunce doesn’t even look up. “Simon likes it. I can’t begin to understand why.” She gestures vaguely to the boxes of tea and adds, “The PG Tips is just to the left.”

I sigh in relief and take a bag.

While the water is boiling, I sit at the table across from her, leaning back in the chair.

She peeks over the book, looking much less stoic than she’d sounded. “How is he?”

I think for a moment. “Quiet. But better.” I push my hair out of my eyes. “He didn’t really do much. Just sat there while I washed him.”

She hides behind the book again. “At least he’s clean now.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “I hope this is a sign of improvement.”

She turns the page, but I doubt she digested anything she read. “I’m still not sure why he started acting like this. I guess I always thought that if he had a problem I’d be able to tell, you know?” She shrugs weakly. “I'm his best friend. I figured I could tell when Simon wasn’t feeling himself. But it’s like overnight he just…”

“Dissipated,” I whisper.

She nods.

We sit there for a moment; I stare at the ceiling, and she looks blankly into the book. Then all at once, her grip on it tightens, and her shoulders hitch.

“It’s awful,” she gasps, voice shaking. “I can’t stand to see him like that. He isn’t Simon, he’s-- he’s a ghost. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t eat, he doesn’t even hear me when I talk to him sometimes, and I can’t--” she chokes on her words, slamming the book onto the table. Lifting her glasses, she wipes at her eyes frantically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

I shake my head. “Are you kidding? This is more than enough of a reason to make a scene.”

She laughs weakly, but her eyes aren’t in it. “You’re right. I just… Merlin, I want him to be happy. Why does it seem like Simon never gets to be fucking happy?”

The kettle whistles before I can answer.


	5. 5

**PENNY**

  
  


I beg Baz to stay the night. I don't think I could have stayed here in what feels like an empty flat otherwise.

He slips into Simon's room and they share the bed. He's done it plenty of times before, so he doesn't mind, and he tells me Simon won't either. I hope Simon will be happy to have his boyfriend there. He won't exactly contribute body heat, but maybe it'll be a comfort anyhow.

I try to relax.

Even with Baz in the next room, I can't seem to fall asleep. I'm tossing and turning, my mind and my stomach in knots.

I've never seen Simon like this before. Scared and silent and so, so tired, despite sleeping all the time. It's like the sleep itself is what's sucking his very soul out of him.

I used to think him getting sleep was a good thing. After all, Simon has so many nightmares. He always has, according to Baz, but I think they come more often now, after what happened in the White Chapel. He screams, and cries, and calls for Baz and I. (And the mage. That's worse, somehow.) (Even now, he calls him “sir,” as if he deserves that kind of respect.) Plus he has insomnia occasionally. Between no rest and violent horrors, I was happy for him when he got a good night's sleep. But now it's a good day's sleep. A good week's sleep, practically. It's too much. I didn't think that was possible, but it is. It's killing him. Draining him.

He's drained in more than one way. He's weak and quiet and relies on me to bring him things. But he's also pale and his hair has lost its bronze shine. The pallor of his skin makes his moles stand out even more, but they look less like his usual gilding and more like plain old blemishes.

I groan and roll over. I need to calm down. Stop thinking and go to sleep. I can pick up in the morning.

As soon as I close my eyes, Simon overtakes my mind again.

When he is awake, for a few hours at a time, he's not really there. I never get to see him, because he's either passed out or in this awful trance of his.

It's a serious departure from the Simon I know. He was always so excited at Watford. Excited by magic. Excited by adventure. Excited by classes, and his room, and the food, and his uniform, and making friends. Now it seems like he can't handle even a shred of emotion, or it'll be too much for his frail body to handle. Unless self-deprecating is an emotion. Self-deprecating and tired.

I wonder if Baz has any experience with this. If maybe Simon fell into one of these states while they were rooming together at Watford. Maybe not this intense, but something similar. Out of anyone, Simon's roommate would have seen all his worst and best days. And out of any roommate, Baz would know him the most, what with how fiercely he studied Simon for years, thinking it was the closest he'd get to love. (Baz has some issues to work through too, but we've got enough on our plate right now.) Is that why Baz is so calm about this? Because he's seen Simon like this before? Or is he just that good at hiding his emotions?

I can't stop thinking. I need to clear my mind. I need to get this jumble of words out of my brain.

I sit up in bed and fumble for my glasses.

Quietly, so as not to wake the boys, I whisper, “ **See what I mean.** ” My ring glows purple. My magic hums, and even though I know it's almost imperceptible, it sounds so loud right now. I lift a shaking hand to write.

_ What we know _ shimmers in the air. I get a rush of nostalgia.

I start my list.

_ Won't eat. Sleeps all day. Won't walk around. Often silent. Negative when speaking. Scared to “screw up.” Being around Baz helps. _

And of course,  _ What we don't _ .

_ Why it started. How to make him feel better. If it'll happen again. What his limits are. _

I swallow down a lump in my throat, looking over what I have so far. I still haven't written down the obvious under  _ What we know _ .

_ Simon is _

I stop. I can't get the word out. I haven't been able to get the word out all week.

_ depressed. _

It looks so stark written there. It's like the word is staring me down, threatening me. I hate it.

I grit my teeth.

_ What we can try _ .


	6. 6

**BAZ**

 

When I wake, Simon Snow is lying on the bed. And I'm lying in his arms.

I don't want to get up, but the smell of whatever Bunce is cooking makes my stomach growl. I gently pry his arms off me. He mumbles in his sleep, sounding annoyed, but I can't make it out. I push my pillow into his waiting arms, and he immediately latches onto it.

Even under the covers, I feel so much colder than when he was holding me.

I slip out of bed and into the living room. Bunce is waiting with a plate of eggs.

When I meet her gaze, there's a fierceness there I haven't seen since we left school. Now I understand what Snow says about her glasses shielding him from the certain death in her eyes.

“Morning,” I say. “Thanks for making breakfast.”

She nods, lips pursed. “Is he awake?”

“No. I didn't want to force him.”

She sits in the chair opposite me, eyebrows pulled together. (Even though the purple left the rest of her hair by the end of seventh year, the ends of her brows are still tinged violet. It's just enough to be noticable up close, but nearly as dark as her natural colour, so you have to know what to look for.)

“Anything you want to tell me?” I probe.

She nods carefully, ponytail bouncing. “I spent a lot of time thinking last night. I wanted to work through some possibilities.”

“Possibilities?” I echo, confused.

“About what we can try to help Simon.”

I swallow. “Right.”

“I think maybe…” She wipes her glasses on her dress. “Maybe he needs something new. Maybe he’s tired of routine.” Her glasses are still smudged when she puts them on. “Is that stupid?”

“Coming from you? Never.”

That makes her smile, at least. “Thank you, but I have no evidence.”

I grin. “That’s why it’s called a hypothesis, Bunce.”

She rolls her eyes. “I guess we’ll need a procedure, then.”

I consider this. “I don't think he's ready for too big a change. Maybe we could take him out for lunch? Something simple.”

She nods. “Foot-in-the-door theory. It's basic sociology. Start him off small, then build up to something bigger.” She has that determined look again. “And I have something really big in mind.”

I'm almost scared to ask.

I've nearly finished my eggs when I hear a soft voice behind me.

“Baz?”

I turn in my seat, and Simon in standing in the doorway to his bedroom, still half asleep. He's still got on his pyjamas.

“Baz, you're still here.”

I stand, walking over to help him to the table. “Of course I am, you numpty. I was in your bed until a few minutes ago.”

His eyebrows lift imperceptibly. “That's nice.”

He's cutest like this, sleepy and clumsy, not a hundred percent certain of what's coming out of his mouth.

 

**SIMON**

 

Baz is smiling. I wonder why.

 

**BAZ**

 

I help him sit, and Bunce serves him. He looks surprised for a moment, and it occurs to me that he hasn't eaten a proper meal in a while.

He eats a bit of it, and while it seems like he's enjoying, he stops after one egg. I ask if he wants more, but he says he's full.

“What now?” He asks quietly as Bunce takes his plate. “Are you leaving, Baz?” He looks upset.

“No,” I say quickly. “I want to watch a movie with you. Okay?”

He thinks for a moment, then nods slowly. “Okay.”

I smile. “And… maybe we can go out for lunch, if you're up to it?” I glance to Bunce conspiratorially.

Simon twiddles his thumbs for a moment, eyebrows pulling together. “Like… to a restaurant?”

“Right.”

He purses his lips. “Ah… yeah. Okay. I should change, then.”

“After the movie,” I assure him. “Just relax for now.”

I think I see the beginnings of a smile.

“Sounds good.”


End file.
